HE  TRAWLER 


JAMES  B.  CONNOLLY 


(LIBRARY     | 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
CAUFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO      J 


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BOOKS    BY    JAMES    B.    CONNOLLY 

PUBLISHED      BY      CHARLES      SCRIBNER'S      SONS 

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THE  TRAWLER 


THE   TRAWLER 

BY 
James  B.  Connolly 

Author  of 

"Sonnie  Boy's  People,"  "Wide  Courses,"  "Out 
of  Gloucester,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

1914 


Copyright,  1914,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Published  November,  1914 


THE  TRAWLER 


THE  TRAWLER 


TO  John  Snow's  home  in  Glouces 
ter  came  the  tale  this  night 
of  how  Arthur  Snow  was 
washed  from  the  deck  of  Hugh 
Glynn's  vessel  and  lost  at  sea;  and 
it  was  Saul  Haverick,  his  sea  clothes 
still  on  him,  who  brought  the  word. 
"I'm  telling  you,  John  Snow,"  said 
Saul — and  he  out  of  breath  almost 
with  the  telling — "and  others  than 
me  will  by  an'  by  be  telling  you, 
what  a  black  night  it  was,  with  a 
high-running  sea  and  wind  to  blow 
the  last  coat  o'  paint  off  the  vessel, 
but  o'  course  he  had  to  be  the  first 
o'  the  fleet — nothing  less  would  do 

[3] 


THE  TRAWLER 

him — to  make  the  market  with  his 
big  ketch.  It  was  for  others,  not  for 
him,  to  show  the  way  to  take  in  sail, 
he  said,  and  not  a  full  hour  before  it 
happened  that  was."  Such  was  Saul 
Haverick's  ending. 

John  Snow  said  nothing;  Mrs. 
Snow  said  nothing.  Saul  looked  to 
me,  but  I  gave  no  sign  that  I  had 
heard  him.  Only  John  Snow's  niece, 
Mary,  looking  up  from  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  said:  "Surely  you 
must  find  it  painful,  Saul  Haverick, 
to  ship  with  such  a  wicked  man  and 
take  the  big  shares  of  money  that 
fall  to  his  crew?" 

"Eh  !"  said  Saul,  frightened-like  at 
her.  "I'm  not  denying  that  he  is  a 
great  fish  killer,  Mary  Snow,  and 
that  we  haven't  shared  some  big 
trips  with  him;  but  it  is  like  his  re- 
[4] 


THE  TRAWLER 

ligion,  I'm  telling  you,  to  be  able  to 
say  how  he  allowed  no  man  ever  he 
crossed  tacks  with  to  work  to  wind- 
'ard  of  him.  He's  that  vain  he'd 
drive  vessel,  himself,  and  all  hands 
to  the  bottom  afore  he'd  let  some 
folks  think  anything  else  of  him." 

"He  lost  my  boy — we'll  say  no 
more  of  him,"  said  John  Snow. 

"Ay,"  said  Saul  Haverick,  "we'll 
speak  no  more  of  him.  But  I  was 
Arthur's  dory  mate,  John  Snow,  as 
you  well  know,  and  my  heart  is  sick 
to  think  of  it.  I'll  be  going  now," 
and  go  he  did,  softly  and  by  way  of 
the  back  stairs;  and  he  no  more 
than  gone  when  a  knock  came  to 
the  door. 

After  a  time,  the  clock  on  the  mantel 
ticking  loud  among  us,  John  Snow 
called  out:  "Come  in!" 

[5] 


II 

I  REMEMBER  how  Hugh  Glynn 
stepped  within  the  door  of  John 
Snow's  kitchen  that  night,  and 
how  he  bent  his  head  to  step  within; 
and,  bending  his  head,  took  off  his 
cap;  and  how  he  bowed  to  John 
Snow,  Mrs.  Snow,  and  Mary  Snow 
in  turn,  and,  facing  John  Snow,  made 
as  if  to  speak;  but  how  his  voice 
would  not  come,  not  until  he  had 
lifted  his  head  yet  higher  and  cleared 
his  throat.  And  beginning  again,  he 
took  a  step  nearer  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  to  where  the  light  of  the  bracket 
lamp  above  the  kitchen  table  shone 
full  on  his  face.  He  was  a  grand  man 
to  look  at,  not  only  his  face  but  the 

[6] 


THE  TRAWLER 

height  and  build  of  him,  and  he  was 
fresh  in  from  sea. 

"John  Snow — and  you,  Mrs.  Snow 

—the  Arbiter's  to  anchor  in  the 
stream,  and  her  flag's  to  half-mast. 
And  knowing  that,  maybe  there's  no 
need  to  say  anything  more." 

Mrs.  Snow  said  nothing,  Mary  Snow 
said  nothing,  but  I  remember  how 
from  under  John  Snow's  brows  the 
deep  eyes  glowed  out. 

"Go  on,"  said  John  Snow  at  last. 

Hugh  Glynn  went  on.  "Well,  he 
was  a  good  boy,  your  Arthur — 
maybe  you'd  like  to  be  told  that, 
even  by  me,  though  of  course  you 
that  was  his  father,  John  Snow,  and 
you  that  was  his  mother,  Mrs.  Snow, 
know  better  than  anybody  else  what 
he  was.  Three  nights  ago  it  was,  and 
we  to  the  south'ard  of  Sable  Island 

[7] 


THE  TRAWLER 

in  as  nasty  a  breeze  as  I'd  been  in 
for  some  time.  A  living  gale  it  was, 
a  November  no' wester — you  know 
what  that  is,  John  Snow — but  I'd 
all  night  been  telling  the  crew  to  be 
careful,  for  a  sea  there  was  to  sweep  to 
eternity  whoever  it  could  've  caught 
loose  around  deck.  I  could  've  hove 
her  to  and  let  her  lay,  but  I  was 
never  one  to  heave  to  my  vessel— 
not  once  I'd  swung  her  off  for  home. 
And  there,  God  help  me,  is  maybe 
my  weakness. 

"She  was  under  her  gaff  tops'l,  but 
I  see  she  couldn't  stand  it.  'Boys,' 
says  I,  'clew  up  that  tops'l.'  Which 
they  did,  and  put  it  in  gaskets,  and 
your  Arthur,  I  mind,  was  one  of  the 
four  men  to  go  aloft  to  clew  it  up. 
Never  a  lad  to  shirk  was  Arthur. 
Well,  a  stouter  craft  of  her  tonnage 

[8] 


THE   TRAWLER 

than  the  Arbiter  maybe  never  lived, 
nor  no  gear  any  sounder,  but  there 
are  things  o'  God's  that  the  things 
o'  man  were  never  meant  to  hold  out 
against.  Her  jib  flew  to  ribbons. '  Cut  it 
clear  !'  I  says,  and  nigh  half  the  crew 
jump  for'ard.  Half  a  dozen  of  the 
crew  to  once,  but  Arthur, — your  Ar 
thur,  your  boy,  Mrs.  Snow,  your  son, 
John  Snow— he  was  quick  enough 
to  be  among  the  half-dozen.  Among 
a  smart  crew  he  was  never  left  be 
hind.  It  looked  safe  for  us  all  then, 
coming  on  to  morning,  but  who  can 
ever  tell  ?  Fishermen's  lives,  they're 
expected  to  go  fast,  but  they're  men's 
lives  for  all  that,  and  '  Have  a  care ! ' 
I  called  to  them,  myself  to  the  wheel 
at  the  time,  where,  God  knows,  I  was 
careful. 
Well,  I  saw  this  big  fellow  coming, 


THE  TRAWLER 

a  mountain  of  water  with  a  snow- 
white  top  to  it  against  the  first  light 
of  the  morning.  And  I  made  to  meet 
it.  A  better  vessel  than  the  Arbiter 
the  hand  o'  man  never  turned  out — 
all  Gloucester  knows  that — but,  her 
best  and  my  best,  there  was  no  lifting 
her  out  of  it.  Like  great  pipe-organs 
aroaring  this  sea  came,  and  over  we 
went.  Over  we  went,  and  I  heard  my 
self  saying :  '  God  in  heaven !  You 
great  old  wagon,  but  are  you  gone  at 
last  ? '  And  said  it  again  when  maybe 
there  was  a  fathom  of  water  over  my 
head — her  quarter  was  buried  that 
deep  and  she  that  long  coming  up. 
Slow  coming  up  she  was,  though  up 
she  came  at  last.  But  a  man  was 
gone." 

He  had  stopped;  but  he  went  on. 
"It  was  Arthur,  John  Snow,  and  you, 

[10] 


THE  TRAWLER 

Mrs.  Snow,  who  was  gone.  The  boy 
you  were  expecting  to  see  in  this  very 
room  by  now,  he  was  gone.  Little 
Arthur  that  ten  years  ago,  when 
first  I  saw  him,  I  could  Ve  swung  to 
the  ceiling  of  this  room  with  my  one 
finger — little  Arthur  was  gone.  Well, 
'Over  with  a  dory  !'  I  said.  And,  gale 
and  all,  we  over  with  a  dory,  with 
three  of  us  in  it.  We  looked  and 
looked  in  that  terrible  dawn,  but  no 
use — no  man  short  o'  the  Son  o'  God 
himself  could  'a'  stayed  afloat,  oil 
skins  and  red  jacks,  in  that  sea.  But 
we  had  to  look,  and  coming  aboard 
the  dory  was  stove  in — smashed,  like 
't\vas  a  china  teacup  and  not  a  new 
banker's  double  dory,  against  the 
rail.  And  it  was  cold.  Our  frost-bitten 
fingers  slipped  from  her  ice-wrapped 
rail,  and  the  three  of  us  nigh  came 
[ill 


THE  TRAWLER 

to  joining  Arthur,  and  Lord  knows 
—a  sin,  maybe  you'll  say,  to  think  it, 
John  Snow— but  I  felt  then  as  if  I'd 
just  as  soon,  for  it  was  a  hard  thing 
to  see  a  man  go  down  to  his  death, 
maybe  through  my  foolishness.  And 
to  have  the  people  that  love  him  to 
face  in  the  telling  of  it— that's  hard, 
too." 

He  drew  a  great  breath.  "And" 
again  a  deep  breath  and  a  deepened 
note  of  pain—  "that's  what  I've  come 
to  tell  you,  John  Snow,  and  you,  Mrs. 
Snow — how  your  boy  Arthur  was 
lost." 

John  Snow,  at  the  kitchen  table,  I 
remember,  one  finger  still  in  the 
pages  of  the  black-lettered  Bible  he 
had  been  reading  when  Hugh  Glynn 
stepped  in,  dropped  his  head  on  his 
chest  and  there  let  it  rest.  Mrs.  Snow 

[12] 


THE  TRAWLER 

was  crying  out  loud.  Mary  Snow  said 
nothing,  nor  made  a  move,  except  to 
sit  in  her  chair  by  the  window  and 
look  to  where,  in  the  light  of  the 
kitchen  lamp,  Hugh  Glynn  stood. 

There  was  a  long  quiet.  Hugh 
Glynn  spoke  again.  "Twenty  years, 
John  Snow,  and  you,  Mrs.  Snow — 
twenty  good  years  I've  been  fishing 
out  o'  Gloucester,  and  in  that  time 
not  much  this  side  the  western  ocean 
I  haven't  laid  a  vessel's  keel  over. 
From  Greenland  to  Hatteras  I've 
fished,  and  many  smart  seamen  I've 
been  shipmates  with — dory,  bunk, 
and  watch  mates  with  in  days  gone 
by — and  many  a  grand  one  of  'em 
I've  known  to  find  his  grave  under 
the  green-white  ocean,  but  never  a 
smarter,  never  an  abler  fisherman 
than  your  boy  Arthur.  Boy  and  man 

[131 


THE  TRAWLER 

T  knew  him,  and,  boy  and  man,  he 
did  his  work.  I  thought  you  might 
like  to  hear  that  from  me,  John 
Snow.  And  not  much  more  than  that 
can  I  say  now,  except  to  add,  maybe, 
that  when  the  Lord  calls,  John  Snow, 
we  must  go,  all  of  us.  The  Lord  called 
and  Arthur  went.  He  had  a  good  life 
before  him — if  he'd  lived.  He'd  've 
had  his  own  vessel  soon — could  've 
had  one  before  this — if  he'd  wanted. 
But  'No,'  he  says,  'I'll  stay  with  you 
yet  a  while,  Captain  Hugh.'  He  loved 
me  and  I  loved  him.  'I'll  stay  with 
you  yet  a  while,  Captain  Hugh,'  he 
says,  but,  staying  with  me,  he  was 
lost,  and  if  I  was  old  enough  to  have 
a  grown  son  o'  my  own,  if  'twas  that 
little  lad  who  lived  only  long  enough 
to  teach  me  what  it  is  to  have  hope 
of  a  fine  son  and  then  to  lose  him, 

[14] 


THE  TRAWLER 

if  'twas  that  little  lad  o'  mine  grown 
up,  I  doubt  could  I  feel  it  more,  John 
Snow." 

John  Snow  let  slip  his  book  and 
stood  up,  and  for  the  first  time 
looked  fair  at  Hugh  Glynn.  "We 
know,  Captain  Glynn,"  John  Snow 
said,  "and  I'm  thanking  you  now. 
It's  hard  on  me,  hard  on  us  all — our 
only  son,  captain — our  only  child. 
But,  doubtless,  it  had  to  come.  Some 
goes  young  and  some  goes  old.  It 
came  to  him  maybe  earlier  than  we 
ever  thought  for,  or  he  thought  for, 
no  doubt,  but — it  come.  And  what 
you  have  told  us,  captain,  is  some 
thing  for  a  man  to  be  hearing  of  his 
son — and  to  be  hearing  it  from  you. 
And  only  this  very  night,  with  the 
word  of  you  come  home,  my  mind 
was  hardening  against  you,  Captain 

[15] 


THE  TRAWLER 

Glynn,  for  no  denying  I've  heard  hard 
things  even  as  I've  heard  great  things 
of  you.  But  now  I've  met  you,  I  know 
they  mixed  lies  in  the  telling,  Cap 
tain  Glynn.  And  as  for  Arthur- 
John  Snow  stopped. 

"As  for  Arthur"  -'twas  something 
to  listen  to,  the  voice  of  Hugh  Glynn 
then,  so  soft  there  was  almost  no 
believing  it — "as  for  Arthur,  John 
Snow,  he  went  as  all  of  us  will  have 
to  go  if  we  stop  long  enough  with  the 
fishing." 

"Ay,  no  doubt.  As  you  may  go 
yourself,  captain?" 

"As  I  expect  to  go,  John  Snow.  To 
be  lost  some  day — what  else  should  I 
look  forward  to?" 

"A  black  outlook,  captain." 

"Maybe,  maybe.  And  yet  a  man's 
death  at  the  last." 

[16] 


"So  'tis,  captain — -so  'tis." 

John  Snow  and  Hugh  Glynn  gripped 
hands,  looked  into  each  other's  eyes, 
and  parted — Hugh  Glynn  out  into 
the  night  again  and  John  Snow, 
with  Mrs.  Snow,  to  their  room,  from 
where  I  could  hear  her  sobbing.  I 
almost  wanted  to  cry  myself,  but 
Mary  Snow  was  there.  I  went  over 
and  stood  behind  her.  She  was  look 
ing  after  some  one  through  the  win 
dow. 

It  \vas  Hugh  Glynn  walking  down 
the  steep  hill.  Turning  the  corner  be 
low,  I  remember  how  he  looked  back 
and  up  at  the  window. 

For  a  long  silence  Mary  Snow  sat 
there  and  looked  out.  When  she 
looked  up  and  noticed  me,  she  said: 
"It's  a  hard  life,  the  bank  fishing, 
Simon.  The  long,  long  nights  out  to 

[17] 


THE  TRAWLER 

sea,  the  great  gales;  and  when  you 
come  home,  no  face,  it  may  be,  at 
the  door  to  greet  you." 

"That  it  is,  Mary." 

"I  saw  his  wife  one  day,  Simon," 
said  Mary  Snow  softly,  "and  the 
little  boy  with  her.  But  a  week  be 
fore  they  were  killed  together  that 
was ;  six  years  ago,  and  he,  the  great, 
tall  man,  striding  between  them.  A 
wonderful,  lovely  woman  and  a  noble 
couple,  I  thought.  And  the  grand 
boy !  And  I  at  that  heedless  age, 
Simon,  it  was  a  rare  person,  be  it 
man  or  woman,  I  ran  ahead  to  see 
again." 

"Come  from  the  window,  Mary," 
I  said  to  that,  "and  we'll  talk  of 
things  more  cheerful." 

"No,  no,  Simon — don't  ask  me 
to  talk  of  light  matters  to-night." 

[18] 


THE  TRAWLER 

With  that  and  a  "Good  night"  she 
left  me  for  her  room. 

Out  into  the  street  I  went.  John 
Snow's  house  stood  at  the  head  of  a 
street  atop  of  a  steep  hill,  and  I  re 
member  how  I  stood  on  the  steps  of 
John  Snow's  house  and  looked  down 
the  slope  of  the  hill,  and  below  the 
hill  to  the  harbor,  and  beyond  the 
harbor  to  clear  water.  It  was  a  cold 
winter  moonlight,  and  under  the 
moon  the  sea  heaved  and  heaved  and 
heaved.  There  was  no  break  in  the 
surface  of  that  sea  that  night,  but  as 
it  heaved,  terribly  slow  and  heavy,  I 
thought  I  could  feel  the  steps  beneath 
me  heaving  with  it. 


[19] 


Ill 

AL  that  night  I  walked  the 
streets  and  roads  of  Cape 
Ann,  walking  where  my  eyes 
would  lose  no  sight  of  that  sea  to 
which  I  had  been  born,  and  think 
ing,  thinking,  thinking  always  to  the 
surge  and  roar  of  it;  and  in  the  morn 
ing  I  went  down  to  where  Hugh 
Glynn's  vessel  lay  in  dock;  and  Hugh 
Glynn  himself  I  found  standing  on 
the  string-piece,  holding  by  the  hand 
and  feeding  candy  to  the  little  son 
of  one  of  his  crew,  the  while  half  a 
dozen  men  were  asking  him,  one 
after  the  other,  for  what  I,  too,  had 
come  to  ask. 

[20] 


THE  TRAWLER 

My  turn  came.  "I  never  met  you  to 
speak  to  before,  Captain  Glynn,"  I 
began,  "but  I  was  a  friend  of  Arthur 
Snow's,  and  I  was  hopeful  for  the 
chance  to  ship  with  you  in  Arthur's 
place." 

"My  name  is  Simon  Kippen,"  I 
went  on,  \vhen  he  made  no  answer. 
"I  was  in  John  Snow's  kitchen  when 
you  came  in  last  night." 

"I  know"  —he  waved  the  hand  that 
wasn't    holding    the    little    boy—  "I 
know.    And" —he    almost    smiled— 
"you're  not  afraid  to  come  to  sea 
with  me?" 

"Why  more  afraid,"  I  said,  "than 
you  to  take  me  with  you?" 

'You  were  a  great  friend  of  Ar 
thur's?" 

"A  friend  to  Arthur — and  more  if 
I  could,"  I  answered. 

[21] 


THE  TRAWLER 

He  had  a  way  of  throwing  his  head 
back  and  letting  his  eyes  look  out, 
as  from  a  distance,  or  as  if  he  would 
take  the  measure  of  a  man.  'Twas 
so  he  looked  out  at  me  now. 

"He's  a  hard  case  of  a  man, 
shouldn't  you  say,  Simon  Kippen, 
who  would  play  a  shipmate  foul?" 

I  said  nothing  to  that. 

"And,  master  or  hand,  we're  surely 
all  shipmates,"  he  added;  to  which 
again  I  said  nothing. 

"Will  you  take  Saul  Haverick  for 
dory  mate?"  he  said  again. 

"I  bear  Saul  Haverick  no  great 
love,"  I  said;  "but  I  have  never 
heard  he  \vasn't  a  good  fisherman, 
and  who  should  ask  more  than  that 
of  his  mate  in  a  dory?" 

He  looked  out  at  me  once  more 
from  the  eyes  that  seemed  so  far 

[22] 


THE  TRAWLER 

back  in  his  head;  and  from  me  he 
looked  to  the  flag  that  was  still  to 
the  half-mast  of  his  vessel  for  the  loss 
of  Arthur  Snow. 

"We  might  ask  something  more  in 
a  dory  mate  at  times,  but  he  is  a 
good  fisherman,"  he  answered  at 
last.  "A  good  hand  to  the  wheel  of 
a  vessel,  too,  a  cool  head  in  danger, 
and  one  of  the  best  judges  of  weather 
ever  I  sailed  with.  We're  putting  out 
in  the  morning.  You  can  have  the 
chance." 

As  to  what  was  in  my  heart  when 
I  chose  to  ship  with  Hugh  Glynn,  I 
cannot  say.  There  are  those  who 
tell  us  how  they  can  explain  every 
heart-beat,  quick  or  slow,  when  aught 
ails  them.  I  never  could.  I  only  know 
that  standing  on  the  steps  of  Mary 
Snow's  house  the  night  before,  all 

[23] 


THE  TRAWLER 

my  thought  was  of  Mary  Snow  sit 
ting  at  the  window  and  looking  down 
the  street  after  Hugh  Glynn.  And 
"God  help  you,  Simon  Kippen!"  I 
found  myself  saying— "it's  not  you, 
nor  Saul  Haverick,  nor  any  other 
living  man  will  marry  Mary  Snow 
while  Hugh  Glynn  lives,  for  there 
is  no  striving  against  the  strength 
of  the  sea,  and  the  strength  of 
Hugh  Glynn  is  the  strength  of  the 
sea."  But  of  what  lay  beyond  that 
in  my  heart  I  could  not  say. 

And  now  I  was  to  sea  with  Hugh 
Glynn,  and  we  not  four  days  out  of 
Gloucester  when,  as  if  but  to  show 
me  the  manner  of  man  he  was,  he 
runs  clear  to  the  head  of  Placentia 
Bay,  in  Newfoundland,  for  a  baiting 
on  our  way  to  the  banks;  and  who 
ever  knows  Placentia  Bay  knows 

[24] 


THE  TRAWLER 

what  that  means,  with  the  steam- 
cutters  of  the  Crown  patrolling,  and 
their  sleepless  watches  night  and  day 
aloft,  to  trap  whoever  would  try 
to  buy  a  baiting  there  against  the 
law. 

No  harm  fell  to  Hugh  Glynn  that 
time.  No  harm  ever  fell  to  him,  fish 
ermen  said.  Before  ever  the  cutters 
could  get  sight  of  him  he  had  sight 
of  them;  and  his  bait  stowed  below, 
safe  away  he  came,  driving  wrild-like 
past  the  islands  of  the  bay,  with  never 
a  side-light  showing  in  the  night,  and 
not  the  first  time  he  had  done  so. 

"What  d'y'  say  to  that,  Simon? 
Didn't  we  fool  'em  good  ?"  he  asked, 
when  once  more  we  were  on  the  high 
seas  and  laying  a  free  course  for  the 
western  banks. 

"I'm  grateful  you  did  not  ask  me 

[25] 


THE  TRAWLER 

to  go  in  any  dory  to  bring  the  bait 
off,"  I  answered. 

"Why  is  that,  Simon?"  he  asked, 
as  one  who  has  no  suspicion. 

"It  was  against  the  law,  Captain 
Glynn." 

"But  a  bad  law,  Simon?" 

"Law  is  law,"  I  answered  to  that. 

He  walked  from  the  wheel,  where  I 
was,  twice  to  the  break  of  the  vessel 
and  back  again  and  said,  in  a  voice 
no  louder  than  was  needful  to  be 
heard  above  what  loose  water  was 
splashing  over  her  quarter  to  my 
feet:  "Don't  be  put  out  with  me 
for  what  I'll  tell  you  now,  Simon. 
You're  a  good  lad,  Simon,  and  come 
of  good  people,  but  of  people  that 
for  hundreds  o'  years  have  thought 
but  one  way  in  the  great  matters  of 
life.  And  when  men  have  lived  with 

126] 


THE  TRAWLER 

their  minds  set  in  the  one  way  so 
long,  Simon,  it  comes  hard  for  them 
to  understand  any  other  way.  Such 
unfrequent  ones  as  differed  from 
your  people,  Simon,  them  they  cast 
out  from  among  them.  I  know,  I 
know,  Simon,  because  I  come  from 
people  something  like  to  them,  only 
I  escaped  before  it  was  too  late  to 
understand  that  people  who  split 
tacks  with  you  do  not  always  do  it 
to  fetch  up  on  a  lee  shore." 

"And  from  those  other  people,  no 
doubt,  Captain  Glynn,  you  learned 
it  was  right  to  break  a  country's 
laws?" 

"It  wasn't  breaking  our  country's 
law,  Simon,  nor  any  good  man's 
law,  to  get  a  baiting  last  night. 
There  are  a  lot  of  poor  fishermen, 
Simon — as  none  know  better  than 

[27] 


THE  TRAWLER 

yourself — in  Placentia  Bay  who  have 
bait  to  sell,  and  there  is  a  law  which 
says  they  must  not.  But  whose  law  ? 
An  American  law  ?  No.  God's  law  ? 
No.  The  law  of  those  poor  people  in 
Placentia  Bay?  No.  Some  traders 
who  have  the  making  of  the  law^s? 
Yes.  And  there  you  have  it.  If  the 
Placentia  Bay  fishermen  aren't  al 
lowed  to  sell  bait  to  me,  or  the  like 
of  me,  they  will  have  to  sell  it  to 
the  traders  themselves,  but  have  to 
take  their  one  dollar,  where  we  of 
Gloucester  would  pay  them  five,  and, 
paying  it,  would  give  some  of  them 
and  their  families  a  chance  to  live." 
He  stood  there  in  his  rubber  boots 
to  his  hips  and  his  long  greatcoat 
to  his  ankles — he  was  one  who  never 
wore  oilskins  aboard  ship — swinging 
with  the  swing  of  the  plunging  vessel 

[281 


as  if  he  was  built  into  her,  and  with 
his  head  thrown  back  and  a  smile, 
it  may  be,  that  was  not  a  smile  at 
all,  and  kept  looking  at  me  from  out 
of  eyes  that  were  changeable  as  the 
sea  itself. 

"  Don't  you  be  getting  mad  with 
me,  Simon,  because  we  don't  think 
alike  in  some  things.  To  the  devil 
with  what  people  think  of  you — I've 
said  that  often  enough,  Simon,  but 
not  when  they're  good  people.  If 
some  people  don't  like  us,  Simon, 
there  will  come  no  nourishment  to 
our  souls.  Some  day  you're  going  to 
come  to  my  way  o'  thinking,  Simon, 
because  we  two  are  alike  under 
neath." 

"Alike!"  I  smiled  to  myself. 

"Ay,  alike  at  heart,  Simon.  We 
may  look  to  be  sailing  wide  apart 

[29] 


THE  TRAWLER 

courses  now,  but  maybe  if  our  papers 
were  examined  'twould  be  found  we'd 
cleared  for  the  same  last  port  of  call, 
Simon." 

And  no  more  talk  of  anything  like 
that  between  us  until  the  night  be 
fore  we  were  to  leave  the  fishing 
grounds  for  home.  In  the  afternoon 
we  had  set  our  trawls,  and,  leaving 
the  vessel,  the  skipper  had  said, 
"Our  last  set,  boys.  Let  'em  lay  to 
night,  and  in  the  morning  we'll  haul;" 
and,  returning  aboard  after  setting, 
we  had  our  supper  and  were  mak 
ing  ready,  such  as  had  no  watch  to 
stand,  to  turn  in  for  a  good,  long  sleep 
against  the  labor  of  the  morrow. 

It  was  an  oily  sea  that  evening — a 
black,  oily-smooth  surface,  lifting 
heavy  and  slow  to  a  long  swell.  A 
smooth,  oily  sea — there  is  never  any 

[30] 


THE  TRAWLER 

good  comes  out  of  it;  but  a  beautiful 
sea  notwithstanding,  with  more  curi 
ous  patterns  of  shifting  colors  than  a 
man  could  count  in  a  year  playing 
atop  of  it.  The  colors  coming  and 
going  and  rolling  and  squirming— 
no  women's  shop  ashore  ever  held 
such  colors  under  the  bright  night- 
lights  as  under  the  low  sun  we  saw 
this  night  on  the  western  banks.  It 
was  a  most  beautiful  and  a  most 
wicked  sea  to  stop  and  look  at. 

And  the  sun  went  down  that  eve 
ning  on  a  banking  of  clouds  no  less 
beautiful ;  a  copper-red  sun,  and  after 
'twas  gone,  in  lovely  massy  forms 
and  splendid  colors,  were  piled  the 
clouds  in  all  the  western  quarter. 

Such  of  the  crew  as  stopped  to 
speak  of  it  did  not  like  at  all  the 
look  of  that  sea  and  sky,  and  some 

[311 


THE  TRAWLER 

stopped  beside  the  skipper  to  say  it, 
he  leaning  against  the  main  rigging 
in  the  way  he  had  the  while  he  would 
be  studying  the  weather  signs;  but 
he  made  no  answer  to  the  crew,  to 
that  or  any  other  word  they  had  this 
evening — except  to  Saul  Haverick, 
and  to  him  only  when  he  came  up 
from  supper  complaining  of  not  feel 
ing  well. 

He  was  one  could  drive  his  crew  till 
they  could  not  see  for  very  weari 
ness;  but  he  was  one  could  nurse 
them,  too.  "Go  below  and  turn  in," 
was  his  word  to  Saul,  "and  stay 
there  till  you  feel  better.  Call  me, 
Simon,  if  I'm  not  up,"  he  then  said 
to  me.  "I'll  stand  Saul's  watch  with 
you,  if  Saul  is  no  better." 

It  was  yet  black  night  when  I  was 
called  to  go  on  watch,  and,  Saul 

[321 


Haverick  still  complaining,  I  went 
to  call  the  skipper.  But  he  was  al 
ready  up  and  had  been,  the  watch 
before  me  said,  for  the  better  part  of 
the  night.  I  found  him  leaning  over 
the  gunnels  of  the  wind'ard  nest  of 
dories  when  I  went  on  deck,  gazing 
out  on  a  sea  that  was  no  longer  oily- 
smooth,  though  smooth  enough,  too, 
what  was  to  be  seen  of  it,  under  the 
stars  of  a  winter  night. 
I  stood  on  the  break  and  likewise 
looked  about  me.  To  anchor,  and 
alone,  lay  the  vessel,  with  but  her 
riding-light  to  mark  her  in  the  dark; 
alone  and  quiet,  with  never  a  neigh 
bor  to  hail  us,  nor  a  sound  from  any 
living  thing  whatever.  The  very  gulls 
themselves  were  asleep;  only  the 
fores'l,  swaying  to  a  short  sheet, 
would  roll  part  way  to  wind'ard  and 

[33] 


THE  TRAWLER 

back  to  loo'ard,  but  quiet  as  could 
be  even  then,  except  for  the  little 
tapping  noises  of  the  reef -points  when 
in  and  out  the  belly  of  the  canvas 
would  puff  full  up  and  let  down 
again  to  what  little  wind  was  stir 
ring. 

It  was  a  perfect,  calm  night,  but  no 
calm  day  was  to  follow.  "  Wicked 
weather  ahead,"  said  Hugh  Glynn, 
and  came  and  stood  beside  me  on 
the  break.  "A  wicked  day  coming, 
but  no  help  for  it  now  till  daylight 
comes  to  see  our  trawls  to  haul  'em." 
And,  as  one  who  had  settled  that  in 
his  mind,  he  said  no  more  of  it,  but 
from  mainm'st  to  weather  rail  he 
paced,  and  back  again,  and  I  took  to 
pacing  beside  him. 

A  wonderful  time,  the  night-watches 
at  sea,  for  men  to  reveal  themselves. 

[34] 


THE  TRAWLER 

Night  and  sky  overhead  and  the 
wide  ocean  to  your  elbow — it  drives 
men  to  thought  of  higher  things. 
The  wickedest  of  men — I  have  known 
them,  with  all  manner  of  blasphemies 
befouling  their  lips  by  day,  to  be 
come  holy  as  little  children  in  the 
watches  of  the  night. 

No  blasphemer  was  Hugh  Glynn, 
nor  did  the  night  hold  terror  for 
him;  only  as  we  paced  the  break  to 
gether  he  spoke  of  matters  that  but 
himself  and  his  God  could  know.  It 
was  hard  to  listen  and  be  patient, 
though  maybe  it  was  as  much  of 
wonder  as  of  impatience  was  taking 
hold  of  me  as  I  listened. 

"Do  you  never  fear  what  men 
might  come  to  think  of  you,  Captain 
Glynn,"  I  said,  "confessing  your 
very  soul?" 

[35] 


THE  TRAWLER 

"Ho,  ho,  that's  it,  is  it?"  He  came 
to  a  sudden  stop  in  our  walking.  "I 
should  only  confess  the  body — is  that 
it,  Simon  Kippen  ?  And,  of  course, 
when  a  man  confesses  to  one  thing 
of  his  own  free  will,  you  know  there 
must  be  something  worse  behind  ? 
Is  that  it,  Simon?"  He  chuckled  be 
side  me  and,  as  if  only  to  scandalize 
me,  let  his  tongue  run  wilder  yet. 

His  tales  were  of  violations  of  laws 
such  as  it  had  been  my  religion  to 
observe  since  I  was  a  boy,  and  little 
except  of  the  comic,  ridiculous  side 
of  them  all.  The  serious  matters  of 
life,  if  'twas  to  judge  by  what  he 
spoke  to  me  that  night,  had  small 
interest  for  him.  But  the  queer  power 
of  the  man !  Had  it  been  light  where 
he  could  see  me,  I  would  have  choked 
before  ever  I  would  let  him  hear 

[36] 


THE  TRAWLER 

me  laugh;  but  he  caught  me  smiling 
and  straightened  up,  chuckling,  to 
say:  "Many  other  things  you  would 
smile  at,  too,  Simon,  if  your  bringing 
up  would  but  allow  the  frost  to  thaw 
from  your  soul." 

"And  are  reckless  carryings-on  and 
desperate  chancing  things  to  smile 
at?" 

"O  Simon,  Simon,  what  a  righteous 
man  you're  to  be  that  never  expects 
to  see  the  day  when  no  harbor  this 
side  of  God's  eternal  sea  will  offer 
you  the  only  safe  and  quiet  mooring  ! " 

Again  I  saw  Mary  Snow  sitting  at 
the  window  and  looking  down  the 
street,  and  remembering  how  she  had 
spoken  of  his  lonely  home,  I  said: 
"No  doubt  a  man,  like  a  vessel, 
Captain  Glynn,  should  have  always 
a  mooring  somewhere.  A  wonder 

[37] 


THE  TRAWLER 

you  never  thought  of  marrying 
again?" 

"I  have  thought  of  it," 

"And  with  some  one  woman  in 
mind?" 

"It  may  be."  He  answered  that, 
too,  without  a  pause. 

"And  does  she  know?" 

"It  may  be  she  knows.  No  knowing 
when  they  know,  Simon.  As  men 
best  understand  the  soul,  so  it  is 
woman's  best  gift  to  understand  the 
heart.  But  no  fair  play  in  me  to  ask 
her.  I've  had  my  great  hour,  and 
may  not  have  it  again  with  another. 
To  offer  the  woman  I  have  in  mind 
anything  less  than  a  great  love — it 
would  be  to  cheat,  Simon.  No,  no, 
no — it's  not  the  kind  of  a  man  I  am 
now,  but  the  kind  you  are,  Simon, 
should  marry." 

[381 


THE  TRAWLER 

"It's  not  my  kind  that  women  like 
best,  captain,"  I  said. 

"There  are  women  to  like  every 
kind,  Simon,  and  almost  any  kind 
of  a  woman  would  like  your  kind, 
Simon,  if  you  would  only  learn  to  be 
less  ashamed  of  what  should  be  no 
shame.  And  it  is  you,  already  in  love, 
who- 

"Me — in  love?"  I  was  like  a  vessel 
luffing  to  escape  a  squall,  he  had 
come  on  me  so  quickly. 

"There  it  is,  Simon — the  upbring 
ing  of  you  that  would  never  own  up 
to  what  you  think  only  yourself 
know.  Three  weeks  to  sea  now  you've 
been  with  me,  and  never  a  gull  you've 
seen  skirling  to  the  west'ard  that 
your  eyes  haven't  followed.  By  no 
mistake  do  you  watch  them  flying 
easterly.  And  when  last  evening  I 

[39] 


THE   TRAWLER 

said,  'To-morrow,  boys,  we'll  swing 
her  off  and  drive  her  to  the  west'ard 

—to  the  west'ard  and  Gloucester ! ' 
the  leaping  heart  in  you  drove  the 
blood  to  your  very  eyes.  Surely  that 
was  not  in  sorrow,  Simon?" 

I  made  no  answer. 

Back  and  forth  we  paced,  and  talked 
as  we  paced,  until  the  stars  were 
dimming  in  the  sky  and  the  darkness 
fading  from  the  sea.  He  stopped  by 
the  rail  and  stared,  aweary-like,  I 
thought,  upon  the  waters. 

"Simon,  surely  few  men  but  would 
rather  be  themselves  than  anybody 
else  that  lives;  but  surely,  too,  no 
man  sailing  his  own  wide  courses 
but  comes  to  the  day  when  he  wishes 
he'd  been  less  free  in  his  navigation 
at  times.  You  are  honest  and  right, 
Simon.  Even  when  you  are  wrong 

[40] 


THE  TRAWLER 

you  are  right,  because  for  a  man  to 
do  what  he  thinks  is  right,  whether 
he  be  right  or  wrong,  at  the  time, 
is  to  come  to  be  surely  right  in  the 
end.  And  it  is  the  like  of  you,  not  yet 
aweary  in  soul  or  body,  should  mate 
with  the  women  moulded  of  God  to 
be  the  great  mothers." 

:'You  have  done  much  thinking  of 
some  matters,  captain,"  I  said,  not 
knowing  what  else  to  say. 

"Alone  at  sea  before  the  dawn — it 
is  a  wonderful  hour  for  a  man  to 
cross-question  himself,  Simon;  and 
not  many  nights  of  late  years  that 
I  haven't  seen  the  first  light  of  dawn 
creeping  up  over  the  edge  of  the 
ocean.  You  marry  Mary  Snow, 
Simon." 

He  knew.   What  could  I  say?   "I 

never  thought  to  talk  like  this,  cap- 

[41] 


THE  TRAWLER 

tain,  to  a  living  man."  In  the  grow 
ing  light  we  now  stood  plain  to  each 
other's  sight.  "I  don't  understand 
what  made  me,"  I  said,  and  said  it, 
doubtless,  with  a  note  of  shame. 

"It  may  be  just  as  well  at  your 
age  that  you  don't  understand  every 
feeling  that  drives  you  on,  Simon. 
Our  brains  grow  big  with  age,  but 
not  our  hearts.  No  matter  what 
made  you  talk  to-night,  Simon,  you 
marry  Mary  Snow." 

I  shook  my  head,  but  opened  my 
heart  to  him,  nevertheless.  "I  haven't 
the  clever  ways  of  Saul  Haverick." 

"Simon,  it's  my  judgment  this 
night  that  Mary  Snow  will  never 
marry  Saul  Haverick." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  think  that, 
captain.  'T would  spoil  her  life — or 
any  woman's." 

[42] 


THE   TRAWLER 

:'  No,  no,"  he  said,  quick-like.  Al 
most  any  woman's — yes;  but  not 
Mary  Snow's — not  altogether." 

"And  why?" 

'  Because  she's  too  strong  a  soul  to 
be  spoiled  of  her  life  by  any  one  man ; 
because  no  matter  what  man  she 
marries,  in  her  heart  will  be  the 
image,  not  of  the  man  her  husband 
is,  but  of  the  man  she'd  wish  him 
to  be,  and  in  the  image  of  that  man 
of  her  fancy  will  her  children  be 
born.  Women  moulded  of  God  to  be 
the  mothers  of  great  men  are  fash 
ioned  that  way,  Simon.  They  dream 
great  dreams  for  their  children's  sake 
to  come,  and  their  hearts  go  out  to 
the  man  who  helps  to  make  their 
dreams  come  true.  If  I've  learned 
anything  of  good  women  in  life, 
Simon,  it  is  that.  And,  no  saying,  I 

[43] 


THE  TRAWLER 

may  be  wrong  in  that,  too,  Simon, 
but  so  far  I've  met  no  man  who 
knows  more  of  it  than  I  to  gainsay 
me.  You  marry  Mary  Snow,  Simon, 
and  she  will  bear  you  children  who 
will  bring  new  light  to  a  darkening 
world." 

The  dawn  was  rolling  up  to  us  and 
the  next  on  watch  was  on  deck  to 
relieve  me;  and  the  cook,  too,  with 
his  head  above  the  fo'c's'le  hatch, 
was  calling  that  breakfast  was  ready, 
and  we  said  no  more  of  that. 

"Go  for'ard,  Simon,"  said  Captain 
Glynn,  "and  have  your  breakfast. 
After  breakfast  we'll  break  out  her 
anchor,  and  out  dories  and  get  that 
gear  aboard  afore  it's  too  late.  I'll 
go  below  and  see  how  Saul's  getting 
on." 

With  that  he  went  into  the  cabin; 

[44] 


THE   TRAWLER 

but  soon  was  back  to  take  his  seat 
at  the  breakfast  table;  but  no  word 
of  Saul  until  we  had  done  eating, 
and  he  standing  to  go  up  on  deck. 
Then  he  said:  "Saul  says  he  is  still 
too  sick  to  go  in  the  dory  with  you, 
Simon." 

And  to  that  I  said:  "Well,  I've 
hauled  a  halibut  trawl  single-handed 
before,  Captain  Glynn,  and  I  can  do 
it  again  if  need  be." 

He  put  on  his  woollen  cap,  and 
across  the  table  he  looked  at  me,  and 
I  looked  hard  at  him. 

'This  will  be  no  morning  to  go 
single-handed  in  a  dory,  Simon. 
Saul  is  not  too  sick,  he  says,  to  stand 
to  the  wheel  and  handle  the  vessel 
in  my  place.  I  will  take  his  place 
along  with  you  in  the  dory." 

What  he  was  thinking  I  could  not 

[45] 


THE  TRAWLER 

say.  His  head  was  thrown  back  and 
his  eyes  looking  out  and  down  at  me, 
as  from  the  top  of  a  far-away  hill, 
and  no  more  knowing  what  thoughts 
lay  behind  them  than  what  ships  lay 
beyond  the  horizon. 


[46] 


IV 

IT  was  a  blood-red  sunrise  and  a 
sea  that  was   making  when  we 
left  the  vessel,   but   nothing  to 
worry  over  in  that.  It  might  grow 
into  a  dory-killing  day  later,  but  so 
far  it  was  only  what  all  winter  trawl 
ers  face  more  days   than  they  can 
remember. 

We  picked  up  our  nearest  buoy, 
with  its  white-and-black  flag  float 
ing  high  to  mark  it,  and  as  we  did, 
to  wind'ard  of  us  we  could  see,  for 
five  miles  it  might  be,  the  twisted 
lines  of  the  dories  stretching.  Rising 
to  the  top  of  a  sea  we  could  see  them, 
sometimes  one  and  sometimes  an- 

[47] 


THE  TRAWLER 

other,  lifting  and  falling,  and  the 
vessel  lifting  and  falling  to  wind'ard 
of  them  all. 

Hugh  Glynn  took  the  bow  to  do 
the  hauling  and  myself  the  waist  for 
coiling,  and  it  was  a  grand  sight  to 
see  him  heave  in  on  that  heavy  gear 
on  that  December  morning.  Many 
men  follow  the  sea,  but  not  many 
are  born  to  it.  Hugh  Glynn  was. 
Through  the  gurdy  he  hauled  the 
heavy  lines,  swinging  forward  his 
shoulders,  first  one  and  then  the 
other,  swaying  from  his  waist  and  all 
in  time  to  the  heave  of  the  sea  be 
neath  him,  and  singing,  as  he  heaved, 
the  little  snatches  of  songs  that 
I  believe  he  made  up  as  he  went 
along. 

As  he  warmed  to  his  work  he 
stopped  to  draw  off  the  heavy 

[48] 


THE  TRAWLER 

sweater  that  he  wore  over  his  woollen 
shirt,  and  made  as  if  to  throw  it  in 
the  bow  of  the  dory.  "But  no,"  he 
said,  "it  will  get  wet  there.  You 
put  it  on  you,  Simon,  and  keep  it 
dry  for  me."  He  was  a  full  size  bigger 
than  me  in  every  way,  and  I  put  it 
on,  over  my  cardigan  jacket  and 
under  my  oil  jacket,  and  it  felt  fine 
and  comfortable  on  me. 

It  came  time  for  me  to  spell  him  on 
the  hauling,  but  he  waved  me  back. 
"Let  be,  let  be,  Simon,"  he  said,  "it's 
fine,  light  exercise  for  a  man  of  a 
brisk  morning.  It's  reminding  me 
of  my  hauling  of  my  first  trawl  on 
the  Banks.  Looking  back  on  it,  now, 
Simon,  I  mind  how  the  bravest  sight 
I  thought  I  ever  saw  was  our  string 
of  dories  racing  afore  the  tide  in  the 
sea  of  that  sunny  winter's  morning, 

[49] 


THE  TRAWLER 

and  the  vessel,  like  a  mother  to  her 
little  boats,  standing  off  and  on  to 
see  that  nothing  happened  the  while 
we  hauled  and  coiled  and  gaffed 
inboard  the  broad-backed  halibut. 
All  out  of  myself  with  pride  I  was 

—I  that  was  no  more  than  a  lad, 
but  hauling  halibut  trawls  with  full- 
grown  Gloucester  men  on  the  Grand 
Banks !  And  the  passage  home  that 
trip,  Simon !  Oh,  boy,  that  passage 
home!" 

Without  even  a  halt  in  his  heaving 
in  of  the  trawls,  he  took  to  singing: 

"It  came  one  day,  as  it  had  to  come — 

I  said  to  you  'Good-by.' 

'Good  luck,'  said  you,  'and  a  fair,  fair 

wind  '- 

Though  you  cried  as  if  to  die; 
Was  all  there  was  ahead  of  you 
When  we  put  out  to  sea; 
But  now,  sweetheart,  we're  headed  home 
To  the  west'ard  and  to  thee. 

[50] 


THE  TRAWLER 

"So  blow,  ye  devils,  and  walk  her  home — 
For  she's  the  able  Lucy  Foster. 
The  woman  I  love  is  waiting  me, 
So  drive  the  Lucy  home  to  Gloucester. 
O  ho  ho  for  this  heaven-sent  breeze, 
Straight  from  the  east  and  all  you  please  ! 
Come  along  now,  ye  whistling  gales, 
The  harder  ye  blow  the  faster  she  sails — 

0  my  soul,  there's  a  girl  in  Gloucester  !" 

He  stopped  to  look  over  his  shoul 
der  at  me.  "Simon,  boy,  I  mind  the 
days  when  there  was  no  stopping  the 
songs  in  me.  Rolling  to  my  lips  o' 
themselves  they  would  come,  like 
foam  to  the  crests  of  high  seas.  The 
days  of  a  man's  youth,  Simon !  All 

1  knew  of  a  gale  of  wind  was  that  it 
stirred  the  fancies  in   me.    It's  the 
most  wonderful  thing  will  ever  hap 
pen  you,  Simon." 

"What  is,  skipper?" 

"Why,  the  loving  a  woman  and  she 
loving  you,  and  you  neither  knowing 
why,  nor  maybe  caring." 

[51] 


THE  TRAWLER 

"No  woman  loves  me,  skipper." 
"She  will,  boy — never  a  fear." 
He  took  to  the  hauling,  and  soon 
again  to  the  singing: 

"  My  lad  comes  running  down  the  street, 

And  what  says  he  to  me  ? 

Says  he,  '  O  dadda,  dadda, 

And  you're  back  again  from  sea  ! 

' '  And  did  you  ketch  a  great  big  fish 
And  bring  him  home  to  me  ? 
O  dadda,  dadda,  take  me  up 
And  toss  me  high  ! '  says  he. 

"  My  love  looks  out  on  the  stormy  morn, 
Her  thoughts  are  on  the  sea. 
She  says,  '  "Tis  wild  upon  the  Banks,' 
And  kneels  in  prayer  for  me. 

"'O  Father,  hold  him  safe!'  she  prays, 
'And- 

"There's    one,    Simon!"    he   called. 

A   bad   sea   he   meanfe    They   had 

been  coming  and  going,  coming  and 

going,    rolling    under   and    past    us, 

[52] 


THE  TRAWLER 

and  so  far  no  harm;  but  this  was 
one  more  wicked  to  look  at  than 
its  mates.  So  I  dropped  the  coiling 
lines  and,  with  the  oar  already  to 
the  becket  in  the  stern,  whirled  the 
dory's  bow  head  on.  The  sea  car 
ried  us  high  and  far  and,  passing, 
left  the  dory  deep  with  water,  but 
no  harm  in  that  so  she  was  still 
right  side  up. 

"A  good  job,  Simon,"  said  Hugh 
Glynn  the  while  we  were  bailing. 
"Not  too  soon  and  not  too  late." 

That  was  the  first  one.  More  fol 
lowed  in  their  turn;  but  always 
the  oar  was  handy  in  the  becket, 
and  it  was  but  to  whirl  bow  or 
stern  to  it  with  the  oar  when  it 
came,  not  too  soon  to  waste  time 
for  the  hauling  but  never,  of  course, 
too  late  to  save  capsizing;  and  bail- 

[531 


THE  TRAWLER 
ing  her  out,  if  need  be,  when  it  was 

by- 

Our  trawl  was  in,  our  fish  in  the 
waist  of  the  dory,  and  we  lay  to 
our  roding  line  and  second  anchor, 
so  we  might  not  drift  miles  to  loo'- 
ard  while  waiting  for  the  vessel  to 
pick  us  up.  We  could  see  the  ves 
sel — to  her  hull,  when  to  the  top  of 
a  sea  we  rose  together;  but  noth 
ing  of  her  at  all  when  into  the  hol 
lows  we  fell  together. 

She  had  picked  up  all  but  the  dory 
next  to  wind'ard  of  us.  We  would 
be  the  last,  but  before  long  now  she 
would  be  to  us.  "When  you  drop 
Simon  and  me,  go  to  the  other  end 
of  the  line  and  work  back.  Pick 
Simon  and  me  up  last  of  all,"  Hugh 
Glynn  had  said  to  Saul,  and  I  re 
member  how  Saul,  standing  to  the 

[541 


THE  TRAWLER 

wheel,  looked  down  over  the  taffrail 
and  said,  "Simon  and  you  last  of 
all,"  and  nodded  his  head  as  our 
dory  fell  away  in  the  vessel's  wake. 

Tide  and  sea  were  such  that  there 
was  no  use  trying  to  row  against 
it,  or  we  would  not  have  waited  at 
all;  but  we  waited,  and  as  we  waited 
the  wind,  which  had  been  southerly, 
went  into  the  east  and  snow  fell; 
but  for  not  more  than  a  half-hour, 
when  it  cleared.  We  stood  up  and 
looked  about  us.  There  was  no  ves 
sel  or  other  dory  in  sight. 

We  said  no  word  to  each  other  of 
it,  but  the  while  we  waited  further, 
all  the  while  with  a  wind'ard  eye 
to  the  bad  little  seas,  we  talked. 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  dying, 
Simon?"  Hugh  Glynn  said  after  a 
time. 

[55] 


THE  TRAWLER 

"Can  a  man  follow  the  winter 
trawling  long  and  not  think  of  it 
at  times?"  I  answered. 

"And  have  you  fear  of  it,  Si 
mon?" 

"I  know  I  have  no  love  for  it,"  I 
said.  "But  do  you  ever  think  of  it, 
you?" 

"I  do— often.  With  the  double 
tides  working  to  draw  me  to  it,  it 
would  be  queer  enough  if  now  and 
again  I  did  not  think  of  it." 

"And  have  you  fear  of  it?" 

"Of  not  going  properly — I  have, 
Simon."  And  after  a  little:  "And 
I've  often  thought  it  a  pity  for  a 
man  to  go  and  nothing  come  of  his 
going.  Would  you  like  the  sea  for 
a  grave,  Simon?" 

"I  would  not,"  I  answered. 

"Nor  me,  Simon.   A  grand,  clean 

[56] 


grave,  the  ocean,  and  there  was  a 
time  I  thought  I  would;  but  not 
now.  The  green  grave  ashore,  with 
your  own  beside  you— a  man  will 
feel  less  lonesome,  or  so  I've  often 
thought,  Simon. 

"I've  often  thought  so,"  he  went 
on,  his  eyes  now  on  watch  for  the 
bad  seas  and  again  looking  wistful- 
like  at  me.  "I'd  like  to  lie  where 
my  wife  and  boy  lie,  she  to  one  side 
and  the  lad  to  the  other,  and  rise 
with  them  on  Judgment  Day.  I've 
a  notion,  Simon,  that  with  them  to 
bear  me  up  I'd  stand  afore  the  Lord 
with  greater  courage.  For  if  what 
some  think  is  true — that  it's  those 
we've  loved  in  this  world  will  have 
the  right  to  plead  for  us  in  the  next 

—then,  Simon,  there  will  be  two  to 
plead  for  me  as  few  can  plead." 
[57] 


THE  TRAWLER 

He  stood  up  and  looked  around. 
"It  is  a  bad  sea  now,  but  worse 
later,  and  a  strong  breeze  brewing, 
Simon";  and  drew  from  an  inside 
pocket  of  his  woollen  shirt  a  small 
leather  note-book.  He  held  it  up 
for  me  to  see,  with  the  slim  little 
pencil  held  by  little  loops  along  the 
edges. 

'Twas  hers.  I've  a  pocket  put  in 
every  woollen  shirt  I  wear  to  sea  so 
'twill  be  close  to  me.  There's  things 
in  it  she  wrote  of  our  little  boy.  And 
I'm  writing  here  something  I'd  like 
you  to  be  witness  to,  Simon." 

He  wrote  a  few  lines.  "There, 
Simon.  I've  thought  often  this  trip 
how  'tis  hard  on  John  Snow  at  his 
age  to  have  to  take  to  fishing  again. 
If  I  hadn't  lost  Arthur,  he  wouldn't 
have  to.  I'm  willing  my  vessel  to 

[58] 


THE   TRAWLER 

John  Snow.  Will  you  witness  it, 
Simon?" 

I  signed  my  name  below  his;  and 
he  set  the  book  back  in  his  inside 
pocket. 

"And  you  think  our  time  is  come, 
skipper?"  I  tried  to  speak  quietly, 
too. 

"I  won't  say  that,  Simon,  but 
foolish  not  to  make  ready  for  it." 

I  looked  about  when  we  rose  to 
the  next  sea  for  the  vessel.  But  no 
vessel.  I  thought  it  hard.  "Had  you 
no  distrust  of  Saul  Haverick  this 
morning?"  I  asked  him. 

"I  had.  And  last  night,  too,  Simon." 

"And  you  trusted  him?" 

"A  hard  world  if  we  didn't  trust 
people,  Simon.  I  thought  it  over 
again  this  morning  and  was  ashamed, 
Simon,  to  think  it  in  me  to  distrust 

[59] 


THE  TRAWLER 

a  shipmate.  I  wouldn't  believed  it  of 
any  man  ever  I  sailed  with.  But  no 
use  to  fool  ourselves  longer.  Make 
ready.  Over  with  the  fish,  over  with 
the  trawls,  over  with  everything  but 
thirty  or  forty  fathom  of  that  rod- 
ing  line,  and  the  sail,  and  one  an 
chor,  and  the  two  buoys." 

It  was  hard  to  have  to  throw  back 
in  the  sea  the  fine  fish  that  we'd 
taken  hours  to  set  and  haul  for; 
hard,  too,  to  heave  over  the  stout 
gear  that  had  taken  so  many  long 
hours  to  rig.  But  there  was  no  more 
time  to  waste — over  they  went.  And 
we  took  the  two  buoys — light-made 
but  sound  and  tight  half-barrels 
they  were — and  we  lashed  them  to 
the  risings  of  the  dory. 

"And  now  the  sail  to  her,  Simon." 

We  put  the  sail  to  her. 

[60] 


"And  stand  by  to  cut  clear  our 
anchorage!"  I  stood  by  with  my 
bait  knife;  and  when  he  called  out, 
I  cut,  and  away  we  went  racing 
before  wind  and  tide;  me  in  the 
waist  on,  the  buoy  lashed  to  the 
wind'ard  side,  to  hold  her  down,  and 
he  on  the  wind'ard  gunnel,  too,  but 
aft,  with  an  oar  in  one  hand  and 
the  sheet  of  the  sail  in  the  other. 

"And  where  now?"  I  asked,  when 
the  wind  \vould  let  me. 

"The  lee  of  Sable  Island  lies  ahead.'r 

The  full  gale  was  on  us  now — a 
living  gale;  and  before  the  gale  the 
sea  ran  higher  than  ever,  and  before 
the  high  seas  the  flying  dory.  Moun 
tains  of  slate-blue  water  rolled  down 
into  valleys,  and  the  valleys  rolled 
up  into  mountains  again,  and  all 
shifting  so  fast  that  no  man  might 

[61] 


THE  TRAWLER 

point  a  finger  and  say,  "Here's  one, 
there's  one!"— quick  and  wild  as 
that  they  were. 

From  one  great  hill  we  would 
tumble  only  to  fall  into  the  next 
great  hollow;  and  never  did  she 
make  one  of  her  wild  plunges  but 
the  spume  blew  wide  and  high  over 
her,  and  never  did  she  check  her 
self  for  even  the  quickest  of  breaths, 
striving  the  while  to  breast  up  the 
side  of  a  mountain  of  water,  but 
the  sea  would  roll  over  her,  and  I'd 
say  to  myself  once  again:  "Now  at 
last  we're  gone !" 

We  tumbled  into  the  hollows  and 
a  roaring  wind  would  drive  a  boiling 
foam,  white  as  milk,  atop  of  us;  we 
climbed  up  the  hills  and  the  roaring 
wind  would  drive  the  solid  green 
water  atop  of  us.  Wind,  sea,  and 

[62] 


THE  TRAWLER 

milk-white  foam  between  them — • 
they  seemed  all  of  a  mind  to  smother 
us.  These  things  I  saw  in  jumps-like. 
Lashed  to  the  wind'ard  buoy  I  was 
by  a  length  of  roding  line,  to  my 
knees  in  water  the  better  part  of  the 
time,  and  busy  enough  with  the  bail 
ing.  There  was  no  steady  looking  to 
wind'ard,  such  was  the  weight  of  the 
bullets  of  water  which  the  wild  wind 
drove  off  the  sea  crests;  but  a  flying 
glance  now  and  again  kept  me  in  the 
run  of  it. 

I  would  have  wished  to  be  able 
to  do  my  share  of  the  steering,  but 
only  Hugh  Glynn  could  properly 
steer  that  dory  that  day.  The  dory 
would  have  sunk  a  hundred  times 
only  for  the  buoys  in  the  waist; 
but  she  would  have  capsized  more 
times  than  that  again  only  for  the 

[631 


THE  TRAWLER 

hand  of  him  in  the  stern.  Steady 
he  sat,  a  man  of  marble,  his  jaw 
like  a  cliff  rising  above  the  collar 
of  his  woollen  shirt,  his  two  eyes  like 
two  lights  glowing  out  from  under 
his  cap  brim. 

And  yet  for  all  of  him  I  couldn't 
see  how  we  could  live  through  it. 
Once  we  were  so  terribly  beset  that, 
"We'll  be  lost  carrying  sail  like  this, 
Hugh  Glynn !"  I  called  back  to  him. 

And  he  answered:  "I  never  could 
see  any  difference  myself,  Simon, 
between  being  lost  carrying  sail  and 
being  lost  hove  to." 

After  that  I  said  no  more. 

And  so,  to  what  must  have  been 
the  wonder  of  wind  and  sea  that 
day,  Hugh  Glynn  drove  the  little 
dory  into  the  night  and  the  lee  of 
Sable  Island. 

[64] 


WE  took  in  our  sail  and  let  go 
our  anchor.  Hugh  Glynn 
looked  long  above  and  about 
him.  "A  clear  night  coming,  Simon; 
and  cold,  with  the  wind  backing  into 
the  no' west.  We'll  lay  here,  for  big 
vessels  will  be  running  for  this  same 
lee  to-night,  and  maybe  a  chance  for 
us  to  be  picked  up  with  the  daylight. 
Did  I  do  well  this  day  by  you,  Si 
mon?" 

"I'd  be  a  lost  man  hours  back  but 
for  you,"  I  said,  and  was  for  saying 
more  in  praise  of  him,  but  he  held 
up  his  hand. 

"So  you  don't  hold  me  a  reckless, 
desperate  sail  carrier,  Simon,  never 

[65] 


THE  TRAWLER 

mind  the  rest."  His  eyes  were  shin 
ing.  "But  your  voice  is  weary,  Si 
mon,  and  you're  hungry,  too,  I 
know." 

I  was  hungry  and  worn — terribly 
worn — after  the  day,  and  so  told 
him. 

'Then  lie  down  and  'twill  rest  you, 
and  for  a  time  make  you  forget  the 
hunger.  And  while  you're  lying  down, 
Simon,  I'll  stand  watch." 

And  I  made  ready  to  lie  down,  when 
I  thought  of  his  sweater  I  was  wear 
ing.  I  unbuttoned  my  oil  jacket  to 
get  at  it.  "It's  colder  already,  skip 
per,  and  you  will  be  needing  it." 

"No,  it  is  you  will  be  needing  it, 
Simon.  Being  on  my  feet,  d'y'  see,  I 
can  thrash  around  and  keep  warm." 

"But  will  you  call  me  and  take  it 
if  it  grows  too  cold,  skipper?" 

[661 


THE  TRAWLER 

"I'll  call  you  when  I  want  it — lie 
down  now." 

"A  wonderful  calm  night,  full  as 
quiet  as  last  night,  skipper,"  I  said, 
"only  no  harm  in  this  night — no 
gale  before  us  on  the  morrow." 

"No,  Simon,"  he  said — "naught 
but  peace  before  us.  But  lie  down 
you,  boy." 

"And  you'll  call  me,  skipper,"  I 
said,  "when  my  watch  comes?" 

"I'll  call  you  when  I've  stood  my 
full  watch.  Lie  down  now." 

I  lay  down,  meaning  to  keep  awake. 
But  I  fell  asleep. 

I  thought  I  felt  a  hand  wrapping 
something  around  me  in  the  night, 
and  I  made  to  sit  up,  but  a  voice 
said,  "Lie  down,  boy,"  and  I  lay 
down  and  went  to  asleep  again. 

When  I  awoke  it  was  to  the  voices 

[67] 


THE  TRAWLER 

of  strange  men,  and  one  was  say 
ing:  "He  will  be  all  right  now." 

I  sat  up.  I  was  still  in  the  dory, 
and  saw  men  standing  over  me; 
and  other  men  were  looking  down 
from  a  vessel's  side.  Ice  was  thick 
on  the  rail  of  the  vessel. 

It  was  piercing  cold  and  I  was 
weak  with  the  fire  of  the  pains  run 
ning  through  my  veins,  but  re 
membering,  I  tried  to  stand  up. 
"Hsh-h,  boy!"  they  said,  "y°u  are 
all  right,"  and  would  have  held  me 
down  while  they  rubbed  my  feet  and 
hands. 

I  stood  up  among  them,  neverthe 
less,  and  looked  for  Hugh  Glynn. 
He  was  on  the  after  thwart,  his  arms 
folded  over  the  gunnel  and  his  fore 
head  resting  on  his  arms.  His  woollen 
shirt  was  gone  from  him.  I  looked 

[681 


THE  TRAWLER 

back  and  in  the  waist  of  the  dory 
I  saw  it,  where  they  had  taken  it  off 
me;  and  the  sail  of  the  boat  he  had 
wrapped  around  me,  too;  and  his 
woollen  mitts. 

I  lifted  his  head  to  see  his  face. 
If  ever  a  man  smiled,  'twas  he  was 
smiling  as  I  looked.  "Skipper!  O 
skipper!"  I  called  out;  and  again: 
"O  skipper!" 

One  of  the  men  who  had  been  rub 
bing  my  feet  touched  my  shoulder. 
"Come  away,  boy;  the  voice  o'  God 
called  him  afore  you." 

And  so  Hugh  Glynn  came  to  his 
green  grave  ashore;  and  so  I  came 
home  to  marry  Mary  Snow;  and  in 
the  end  to  father  the  children  which 
may  or  may  not  grow  great  as  he 
predicted.  But  great  in  the  eyes  of 

[69] 


THE  TRAWLER 

the  world  they  could  become,  greater 
than  all  living  men,  it  might  be,  and 
yet  fall  far  short  in  our  eyes  of  the 
stature  of  the  man  who  thought 
that  'twas  better  for  one  to  live 
than  for  two  to  die,  and  that  one 
not  to  be  himself. 

Desperate  he  was  and  lawbreak- 
ing,  for  law  is  law,  whosoever  it 
bears  hard  upon;  but  the  heart  was 
warm  within  him.  And  if  my  chil 
dren  have  naught  else,  and  it  is  for 
their  mother  and  me  to  say,  the 
heart  to  feel  for  others  they  shall 
have;  and  having  that,  the  rest 
may  follow  or  not,  as  it  will;  which 
would  be  Hugh  Glynn's  way  of  it, 
too,  I  think. 


[70] 


18594 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 


JUN  l 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  821  587     3 


